"I warned her that wasn't good. I, myself, never went out with more than one man at a time for a period of time and only two before I met my husband. But young people are different nowadays. She don't listen," she concluded. She was talking about Kristin as though she were still alive and this dead thing was just a temporary, annoying condition.
The police listened politely, but from where he stood looking in, he could see their smiles behind their hands or when they turned away.
They asked her if she could come with them to identify the body. The way she looked at them, it was clear to him that she had forgotten what they had come to tell her. No wonder she was talking like that. The realization hit her again. She faltered a moment, caught her breath, and then excused herself to get dressed.
The moment she left, they began to snoop about the room. He wondered if they had any reason to do that. Not one of them had asked her if she had any guests. His car was around back so they hadn't noticed it. They're just nosy, he concluded. Their jobs and uniforms give them the right to enter into people's lives and violate their privacy. Nothing in the old lady's world was sacred. They would explore her small intestine if they wanted. They're just like insects or rodents. No place is off limits.
Suddenly he felt like defending the old lady, like rushing in there and demanding to know who the hell gave them the right to look in drawers and in jewel boxes? He might have done just that, too, but the old lady was back from her room quicker than anyone had anticipated.
She wore what he thought was a very silly-looking hat, the brim too wide and the hat a bit too large for her head. They took her out and put her in the rear of the car. He watched them drive off and then he went inside and hurried up the stairs to his room to pack his things. He started to take his clothes off hangers and then stopped and gazed at himself in the mirror above the dresser. What am I doing? he asked himself. Why am I running? Look at this place, these small towns. It's prime plucking, and it would be crazy for me to leave, he thought. Besides, the law enforcement here is vintage boondocks. They probably still think fingerprints are some form of mass-produced duplicated works of art.
He laughed and put the clothes back on hangers. He was in his Godself mode as he liked to call it. He always felt this way when he was restored and working on all cylinders. As confident as ever, he took a warm shower and then got into bed. A good night's sleep is what he needed and he could fall asleep at a moment's notice, if he wanted. No guilty conscience, no worries to keep him tossing and turning. He had truly forgotten what he had done. That irked him for a few moments. He recalled not knowing why the police had come to see the old lady.
It made him laugh. Then he remembered some of it, enough of it. How could I have forgotten getting into her vehicle and then running back here afterward?
He questioned the darkness. He wondered if he should be worried. What difference did it make? he concluded. It's not like I am keeping a journal. After that he did fall asleep quickly, but he also woke up when he heard a door close and footsteps on the stairway. He heard her sobbing as she ascended. He rose and went to the door, opening it first to peek out and then farther when he saw her pause at the top of the landing below to catch her breath.
"Is anything wrong, Mrs. Martin?" he called down to her. She jerked her head his way, her eyes refocusing under the dim corridor light. From the way her mouth twisted and her eyebrows lifted, he thought she had completely forgotten about him.
"Oh," she said, "something terrible. My granddaughter..."
"What about her?"
"She's dead. She was found dying in her car. Someone might have raped her."
"Oh my God," he said. "That beautiful young woman?"
"Yes. My only living grandchild. I have no one now, no one I care about," she said. "I wish I could lie down and die myself," she added. "Just go to sleep and die myself."
"Yes," he said. "I don't blame you."
"The doctor at the hospital gave me some pills to take to help me rest," she said plucking a packet out of her coat pocket. "I oughta take them all at the same time."
He nodded.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Martin?"
"No," she said shaking her head. "Nothing. Thank you.
"Please don't hesitate to call me if you need anything," he said as she started down the corridor toward her room. She shook her head and continued. He watched her until she was in her room and then he returned to his room, closed his door softly and stood there, thinking.
What a depressingly sad person. She will never have a good day from now on, he concluded. And then he thought he could help her and help himself. Vaguely, he recalled an opportunity like this in the past, although the details were as faint and cloudy as the rocks at the bottom of that murky pond at the rear of the tourist house. Struggle as much as he wanted, he would still not get a clear view of them, but that wasn't important. He had the general idea and besides, he didn't like doing the same things repeatedly. A little originality made life so much more interesting.
He waited a good hour and then he left his room in stocking feet, descending the short stairway as softly and quietly as he would if the floor were made of marshmallows. He opened her bedroom door in increments, containing the smallest squeak. She had a small nightlight on, one of those that were plugged into a socket. It threw just enough of a glow to clearly delineate everything in her bedroom. He saw her head on the large, fluffy pillow. The light made it seem as if her face was carved out of white marble. Her whole head looked like it was slowly sinking into the pillow and she would soon be gone from sight, matter of fact. She was on her back and her hands were crossed over themselves and on her stomach just the way an undertaker might have put them. How convenient and how portentous he thought and entered her room. He stood by the side of her bed and watched her labored breathing. She was lifting her upper lip with every exhale. He couldn't imagine when, if ever, this old woman was attractive. She probably looked old when she was in her twenties, he thought. Time to start the process, he decided and tugged the big pillow out from under her head in one swift motion. Her head fell to the mattress and her eyes popped open.
"Whaaa. What are you doing in here?" she demanded.
"Helping you," he said.
He put the pillow over her face before she could reply. She started to struggle and gag and after a while, he let her breathe. She gasped eagerly, full of hope, and then he put the pillow over her face again and she fought again. Again, he let it up and again she gasped and heaved and choked for air. On and on the process continued: he bringing her to brink and she struggling, each time with less effort. What's more, each time she was free to breathe, it became more labored for her to do so.
Relentlessly, he put the pillow over her face. Her hands were barely pushing and pulling now. She was giving it so little effort that he had to stop sooner.
"Come on now," he urged, "you can do better than that." She gasped and choked and he did it again and again he released it until finally, while he had the pillow up, she waved her hand, fought for breath, and died. She died of heart failure, not asphyxiation.
It was his design. Someday soon after he was gone, she would be discovered and that was what they would believe. That was what the coroner would determine. Again, how he knew all this, he couldn't say, but he knew it. What difference did the how make after all?
He brushed down her face to be sure there were no traumas, no evidence of anything against her skin, no pressure, no blows. The pillow had been wonderful.
"Good choice," he told the corpse. "Soft, downy. I kind of like it. Do you mind if I use it tonight?"